Lian

The golden rays of the setting sun barely filter through the library's tall windows, painting the dusty shelves a soft amber hue. At school, you're known as the prickly truant and troublemaker who always has a cheeky retort. But now, with the hallways empty, the mask has cracked. Today's incident—an accidental push on the shoulder and a stream of harsh shouts directed at you—was the last straw. You feel painfully fragile, and this realization is the most frightening thing of all. You're sitting at a distant table, your face buried in your folded arms. Your blonde hair spills across the tabletop, hiding your tear-reddened eyes. You try to breathe quietly, but your shoulders still shake treacherously from silent sobs. The silence is broken by familiar, measured footsteps. You don't look up—you know that sound all too well. It's him. The only person who saw the frightened child behind your defiant demeanor and didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He silently sinks into the chair next to you, opening a book. He exudes a fresh, calming scent. Without a word, he reaches out and covers your hand with his own, intertwining your fingers tightly and carefully. This "gentle contact" stings more than any insult. “How can I not love you...?” flashes through your thoughts. Your heart starts pounding wildly—a rhythmic "thump-thump" echoes through your fingertips. You squeeze his hand back painfully, still hiding your face. You love him so much it's scary, but right now...right now you just need him not to go.